Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, Abigail forced a composed expression, determined to hide her inner turmoil. However, she couldn’t help but notice Edward’s calculating gaze flicker between Arthur, Sophia, and herself, a smile curling unpleasantly upon his lips. It was obvious that he somehow sensed an opportunity in Sophia’s sudden return, an opportunity to exploit Arthur’s distraction and Abigail’s vulnerability.
Does he know about our plan? Has someone told him?
Despairing, Abigail moved swiftly toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, needing space to regain her composure. The crowded room suddenly felt stifling, and claustrophobic, and she did not trust herself to maintain any semblance of self-control. She leaned against one of the marble columns by the open French doors, her fingers tightening involuntarily in the fabric of her gown.
She sensed rather than saw Arthur’s approach, his presence an anxiety-inducing mix of comfort and unrest. His voice, quiet and sincere, whispered gently, “Are you all right?”
She forced a smile, avoiding his gaze. “Of course, my lord.”
He hesitated, sensing her unease. “Sophia’s presence changes nothing between us, Abigail.”
Abigail finally looked into Arthur’s eyes, her heart yearning desperately for reassurance. “Are you certain, Arthur? Your reaction—”
“My reaction is surprise, nothing more,” Arthur insisted quietly, sincerity filling his voice. “I promise you. I did not think she would turn up, despite my mother’s rather insensitive decision to invite her.”
Abigail searched his expression desperately, finding sincerity and vulnerability mirrored clearly. Her heart fluttered anxiously, she felt caught somewhere between tentative hope and painful uncertainty. She sighed softly, her eyes holding his. “I want to believe that.”
Arthur took her hand gently, the warmth of his fingers steadying her trembling heart. “Then believe it. Please.”
She drew courage from his earnestness, nodding slowly. “I shall try.”
Arthur’s relief was palpable, his gentle smile soothing her lingering fears. Yet, even as Abigail relaxed slightly beneath his gaze, a familiar, unpleasant voice intruded suddenly upon their quiet intimacy.
Edward’s voice, mocking yet charmingly malicious, spoke softly, “Lady Sophia’s return appears to have rattled you both. A curious thing, isn’t it?”
Arthur’s expression darkened immediately, his eyes narrowing in quiet warning. Abigail stiffened instinctively beside him, dread twisting painfully inside her.
Edward continued smugly, his voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “One wonders if old flames ever truly die, Beaumont. There’s nothing quite like the loss of your first true love, is there? It never quite goes away.”
Abigail’s stomach churned violently, the nausea rising swiftly with Edward’s unbridled callousness. Arthur’s expression became dangerously cold, yet Edward only smiled triumphantly, fully aware of the wounds he had successfully reopened for Arthur and the seed of doubt he had successfully replanted in Abigail’s mind.
Abigail realised abruptly that Edward knew far too much, saw far too clearly—and intended to use this knowledge mercilessly against them.
She had no idea how he had come about this information, but it was suddenly painfully apparent that he would do whatever was in his power to thwart their union—feigned or otherwise. Fear rose sharply within her, overshadowing all else. The fragile hope she had nurtured now felt painfully naive.
What cruel games did fate still have in store? Abigail wondered desolately, silently gripping Arthur’s hand tighter.
The evening stretched painfully ahead, every joyful note now ringing hollow as Abigail stood trembling at the precipice of fear and uncertainty.
Chapter Nineteen
Arthur’s jaw tightened as Edward Colton’s words slithered through the air, cloaked in civility yet laced with unmistakable venom.
“One wonders,” Edward had murmured, his eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction, “if old flames ever truly die, Beaumont. There’s nothing quite like the loss of your first true love, is there? It never quite goes away.”
The silence that followed was brief, but it was piercing.
Arthur did not respond—not immediately. His pulse had begun to thrum just beneath the surface of his skin, cold and steady like the beat of distant war drums. He stared at Edward, his eyes level and unreadable, but inside him something stirred. Something hot and bitter, threatening to surge out of him.
Abigail stood still beside him, and though she remained composed—her chin lifted, her back straightened—Arthur noticed the subtle stiffening of her posture.
A woman trained from childhood in the art of social survival, she knew better than to flinch. But he could sense the tremor beneath her calm, a barely perceptible shift that betrayed how deeply Edward’s barb had struck.
The ballroom carried on. Music drifted on. Laughter fluttered from one corner of the room. But, around them, the air had thickened, rippling faintly with curiosity. A few heads had turned—not many, not yet—but enough. Enough to spark whispers. Enough to plant the first dangerous seed of speculation. And Arthur had a feeling of certainty that Edward was not finished yet.
Arthur’s voice, when it came, was low. “You speak boldly for a man with such little understanding of discretion.”
Edward’s smile deepened. “Discretion is only for those with something to hide. And, who do we know who has something to hide, Lord Beaumont?” He placed his fingers to his lips and widened his eyes dramatically. “Oh, I know. That would beyou, wouldn’t it?”
